


yellow flowers of old time tales

by amelioratedays



Category: Awaken-F - Fandom, 偶像练习生 | Idol Producer (TV)
Genre: M/M, OACA Trainees, Plot isn't exactly coherent since it's more slice of life, Qinmu, but all the better since I update once in 3039483 years
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-03-25 06:12:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13828194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amelioratedays/pseuds/amelioratedays
Summary: drabble fic in canon verse centred around qin fen and han mubo.non-chronological, unbeta-ed





	1. Settling In

**Author's Note:**

> why am i always writing when i should be studying.....  
> anyways pls vote for my oaca parents and their three kids!!!!

“Adjusting?” Mubo questions when night falls and the myriad of cameramen have long disappeared down the halls. There’s still the muffled sound of too many conversations, rustling of luggage and occasional laughter when someone tells a joke and they forget that it’s well past midnight. It all seeps into his bones with an odd sense of deja vu, having been through all of this already once. But now his bones are two years older and a little more brittle. Himself, also two years older but just a little bit stronger. He takes a break from organizing his luggage, settling comfortably upon the tiled floor. “Somewhat,” Qin Fen says with a smile—more to comfort him than anything.

 

It’s odd, he figures, that they leave so many words in the air. As if their thoughts suddenly morph into vapours and simply dissipate instead of turning themselves into words and sentences. But then again, it’s even more odd that more often than not, they’re able to understand all of what is not said. As if their minds were one and not two.

 

He figures it’s their similarities, being born in the same year must also mean that their stars would somehow align. That must be why the trajectories of their lives seem to parallel—rising and falling in the same rhythm. It must be so, Mubo thinks stubbornly, that they would find each in the worst of times.

 

And if so, it’s only natural that they would stay side by side as they embark to the best of times.

 

“Reminiscing?” It’s Qin Fen who questions this time, voice lowered as the younger two have already settled into slumber. He gives an affirmative hum, pressing the heel of his palms onto the ground as he leans back. “Somewhat,” he confesses, “it’s just...strange, I guess. That I’ve been through this already once. It feels so distant though. You?”

 

Qin Fen gives a nonchalant shrug, mattress creaking as he changes his position to fully face Mubo. “I guess. It feels somewhat like when I first stepped into the dorms all the way back when—new faces everywhere and everything blurring simply because I couldn’t understand. I felt as if I was watching the world through a fishbowl.” He smiles softly, “But it’s different this time. Seems slower, in the way that I finally know what I want—who I am.”

 

And Mubo agrees, for the world only seems to slow down as the years pass. It’s so that in the years of youth—fleeting days full of worries, anxieties and _dreams_ —one never truly understands until it’s long past. But now, with a few more years on his shoulders, he thinks he’s starting to understand the way of the world, seems to be able to somewhat grasp the life that was always out of reach.

 

“Wise words,” he chuckles, eyes upturning as he lets out a low laugh. The lights above glint in his eyes—a spark that seems like fire, like stars.

 

“Comes with the old age,” Qin Fen muses, giving his knee a soft pat. He shakes his head in bemusement, “I still can’t believe that everyone here is so young. We’re almost uncles now.”

 

“You are,” Mubo gives a bitter look, “I’m still younger than you.”

 

“If you say so,” the other male bemuses, taking none of his words to heart, for age is nothing but another layer of armour that wraps around their souls. It’s age which sharpens the dull blade within them, age is what brings them together to strive for something that they’ve come to learn they can’t live without.

 

And so, the first night passes by in the blink of an eye, luggage half unpacked as he settles into unfamiliar beds. Mubo stares up at the ceiling, listening to the soft breathing in the room as well as the rhythmic beating of his own heart. He wonders if Qin Fen’s beats in the same pattern, the other sleeping soundly on the bunk below. In a way it reassures him, as if Qin Fen becomes the pillar of support for himself, and every time their hearts beat in sync, it resonates louder. He figures it’s just silly thoughts, but it brings a small warmth within him, mustering just enough confidence for him to face the days ahead. And when sleep finally pulls him over, the warmth spreads from his chest to his face, a small smile settled on his features as he falls into the world of dreams.


	2. First Meetings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you believe my parents were living together all this time, sharing clothes all this time, and we never knew???? rip... Also! I can't believe that my sleeping spots for the boys in chapter one are literally their sleeping spots in their IP dorm... b l e s s  
> Now we can pray that one day Qin Fen will spill the beans on their first impressions so I can know if my characterizations are canon.

Mubo seems to be a person like that of spring. In which the world revives from the cold winter. He stirs warmth in ways that reminds one of how flowers slowly peek through soiled grounds, how the lazy sun peeks through cotton-like clouds. But at the same time, he seems to be like the showers of April that on odd days drench upon the earth in a mixture of gloomy skies, and on even days, midday sun showers. It’s the duality of mother nature, that seems to be embracing and hostile all at once. So that even when he smiles, it seems tinged with melancholy.

 

April Showers. May Flowers.

Mubo feels as if he sits somewhere in between.

 

Perhaps, it’s the way that his life has always been, serene yet lonely. Too many hours immersed in the melodies of classical music and too little hours spent outside, exploring and finding friends. It’s too much time spent by himself until he’s finally realized how few people he held close to his heart. And even fewer, were those who held him in the same regard. On first look, Mubo seems all too quiet—refined, reserved. Then the next second, you’d notice that in his resilience, screams loneliness.

 

Qin Fen is much brighter—vibrant and demanding in ways that he pours his heart out for those around him. He seems more like summer, where the dazzling sun soaks everyone in golden hues. He’s quite the opposite of Mubo, keeping himself entangled in those around him while Mubo holds himself on the sidelines of life. Where even when the course of life runs askew, Qin Fen brings it on himself to pull everyone together. And perhaps, this is the determining factor, Mubo thinks, of why Qin Fen is able to preserve his friendships against the test of time. And maybe _this,_  whatever it was that he lacked, was the reason why time only severed each and every one of Mubo’s relationships—slowly straining until it breaks and dissipates.

 

But it’s only natural, that when people who once had similar dreams embark on different paths eventually walk farther and farther away from one another. Truthfully, he feels envious, of the ways that his ex-members exist only in his memories and as greyed-out names upon his contact list. But for Qin Fen, his ex-members are no longer members but more of a family. He wonders if it’s also partially his fault, for Qin Fen receives love in the amount that he gives. The slightly older male holds out his heart fully in trust. Mubo holds back, shields himself behind too many thoughts and worries. And it’s only natural then, that he receives the quantified amount of love that he was willing to give.

 

Yet in other ways, Mubo feels as if Qin Fen gives up too easily. If Mubo was one to walk against the crashing currents, Qin Fen allows the tides to carry him ashore. Mubo rather that he drowns to his death within the blue seas. Qin Fen settles for land even if his heart is lost somewhere in the vast ocean. Life is always a game of give and take, and Mubo wonders if his losses make up for the gains of Qin Fen. Would they fit together like that of puzzle pieces. Or would they simply destroy each other like jagged shards of glass.

 

Neither of them remember when their first meeting was, meeting on the cusp of seasonal changes. He reckons it’s summer. Qin Fen reckons it’s spring. The earth tilts towards the east, inching forward until it was closest to the sun. Icarus reaches his hands out to the blinding fire. Mubo recalls the warmth of the sun that one day. Qin Fen recalls the slight chill in the wind, blossom petals fluttering in the air. The scent of flowers in full bloom lingers in the air as the buzzing noise of the city surrounds them.

 

It’s then that he loses himself within Qin Fen’s gaze. There’s something mesmerizing in the ways that Qin Fen transforms his wounds into a subdued fire. A glowing ember that glints subtly in the kohl of his irises. It reminds Mubo of stage lights from a year ago, dazzling and scalding. But like moths to a candle flame, he only gravitates towards what would potentially kill him.

 

He knows bits and pieces of the other’s story, having heard through mutual friends of mutual friends. He wonders if Qin Fen has heard of his stories as well. _Does he know?_ He wonders.

 

Does he know that they parallel in the worst ways? Where they’ve fallen from the prime of their youth, wounded and bruised both inside and out. Does he know that they parallel in the best ways? That no matter how much life roughs out their edges, the fire within rekindles.

 

It never dies.

 

For dreams are like that of a soul, and even if at the very end, they are unfulfilled--the yearning, the regrets, they all morph into an energy that transcends time.

 

And even when one attempts to hide it beneath a multitude of thoughts—thoughts that belonged to reality, to rationality—those who hold dreams themselves, are able to see beyond such facades.

 

Mubo knows that there’s a fire within Qin Fen—he knows that Qin Fen can see the one within him as well. And he wonders, if they were to come together, clasping their hands together on the roads of life, would the fire grow stronger? Would it engulf the both of them in vermillion flames, burn them into ashes. Or would it forge them like that of steel—where they would be renewed, stronger, better.

 

Fire, that returns life to the earth.

Fire, that turns coal into diamonds.  

  
  
  
  


“I’m Han Mubo,” he says with a smile, his voice almost like that of honey. The sun reflects of the white of his shirt, as if encasing him in a halo.

 

“I know,” Qin Fen replies with a beam that leaves Mubo wondering if it’s the sunlight that blinds his eyes, or the other’s smile. “I’m Qin Fen,” the other male says, the soft accent of southern provinces—a place always filled with sunlight and blossoming life—makes its way to his ears. _Befitting_ , he thinks, that such a place would raise such a person. He ponders vaguely if he would be such a person, positive and inviting, had he not grown up in the harsh climates of the North. Would he then, also wear his heart on his sleeve and not encase it within iron armour.

 

“Qin Fen,” the older male repeats. “ _Qin_ for the first emperor of Qin. _Fen_ for that of striving.”

 

“I know,” he laughs. “ _Qin_ for the first emperor of Qin. _Fen_ for that of striving.”

  
  
  
  
  


“Then, may we strive together.”


	3. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will I live a day without Fen reminding me that he and Mubo live together??? That they go on dates to the movies?? Wear each other's clothes?? That he's cooked for Mubo before???

It rains the day they move in together—a small apartment near the dance studio, within walking distance to the supermarket. It’s a nice place, he reckons, enough for two people and the occasional few who would come to visit. In a way, Mubo thinks it feels all too mundane, as if they were meant to be together from the very beginning. And there’s nothing too special about the inevitable, is there? Yet in afterthought, Mubo feels as if everything moves with a blur—and the two of them, settle within the comforts of each other too fast, too deep. He gives a small sigh, leaning back against the sofa, sitting between the various boxes they’ve yet to unpack. The room feels like that of his heart—cluttered, unorganized. He’s trying to gather his thoughts but only holds his hands out not knowing where to start.

 

The soft thudding of the rain upon the glass window panes resonates in the background, accompanied by the sound of Qin Fen fumbling in the kitchen. It’s odd, having lived so long on his own—and even when he wasn’t, he lived within the dormitories under twenty-four hour surveillance. Suddenly, he’s not living alone—there are no cameras installed around the house, no intruding staff members. He no longer has to live with the heightened awareness of days long past. It’s a private sphere that only belongs to the two of them, and he can’t help but ponder upon how easily Qin Fen had called it “home.”

 

_Home._

 

The label sits heavily upon his shoulders. Because now they aren’t just coworkers (or even just friends) sharing a flat for convenience. They’re something more _intimate_ , (but  _what?_ Why had Qin Fen never settled such a matter with him) something that resembles more of a family. And despite the two of them never drawing clear boundaries, this, from today on, was their _home_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Qin Fen is a person who lives with his heart on his sleeve, always ready to open up to others. He’s seen more than once how the older boy crosses boundaries with such ease and fluidity. “ _Lao Han,”_ Qin Fen calls him, as if in the blossoming years of youth, Mubo hadn’t been alone in the silent music room. As if, when Mubo opens his eyes after rehearsing a piece, his gaze would find Qin Fen smiling softly at him (his eyes ever so bright) and not the solitude of dust particles faltering underneath the sunlight.

 

But what does this mean?

 

Had he read too much into it? Was this also another act of friendship? Nothing more, nothing less? _No, it shouldn’t be._ But why was it that Qin Fen simply has to wave his hand for Mubo feels the impact of tidal waves crashing against the shores? Years of living, of falling in and out of love, tells him that he _isn’t_ reading the signs wrong. But the possibility of _what-if's_ gnaw under his skin.

 

There’s something particular about being well past the anxiety-driven age of sixteen and yet falling into the depths of ambiguous love. Every little interaction sets off an array of thoughts of _he likes me, he likes me not._ The petals flutter to the ground below, flowers that were the colour of love.

 

He isn’t naive enough to say that he doesn’t notice Qin Fen’s lingering gaze upon him or the knowing smile the older male gives when Mubo lets out yet another statement proclaiming their closeness. It’s a petty game, he knows, where he resembles a small child who can’t help but let the world know what was his. (But was Qin Fen his to claim?)

 

Qin Fen likes him, he deems.  
But would Qin Fen _love_ him?

 

 

 

 

 

He doesn’t conceal his thoughts, not with the way that Qin Fen always seems to see through his facades. And he knows. He knows that Qin Fen knows. Just as the way that Qin Fen knows that he knows Qin Fen knows.

 

But where did that leave them? Was it yet another game of push-pull? A dynamic of courtship that Mubo has never really had a good grasp on. Did Qin Fen simply revel in the sparks of _almost_ love? Would they never embark on the path beyond that?

 

 _Pit-a-pat,_ the raindrops splatter upon the window.  
_Pit-a-pat,_ his heart beats heavily.

 

The couch dips besides him, and there’s the sound of rustled clothing before something warm settles besides him. “What are you thinking about?” Qin Fen asks, brows furrowing, “You seem so sad.”

 

“You,” he says without a thought.

 

“Me?” Qin Fen asks, though he isn’t really looking for an answer. It’s typical, in the way that he stirs up too many emotions in Mubo’s heart and leaves before he’s able to process any of them. So that he only feels as if his thoughts were swirling in murky waters—lost and restrained.  

 

“I’m always thinking about you, you know.” He sighs, reclining on the leather couch. He leans back upon the backrest, looking up at the ceiling instead of the other male.

 

“I think about you too.”

 

“In what ways?”

 

“Many.” Qin Fen doesn’t clarify, voice low and gaze downcast. Mubo wonders half-heartedly what he was thinking about.

 

“Qin Fen,” he calls, “this is our home now.”

 

The older male hums a reply, leaning onto his shoulder. The scent of scented shampoo enters his senses, reminding him of flowers—of youth. Mubo closes his eyes.

 

 

 

 

_He loves me, he loves me not._

 

 

 

 

“ _Our_ home.”

 

“Our home,” Qin Fen chuckles, turning his head to face the crook of Mubo’s neck.

 

“You and me,” He breaks a smile this time, air escaping his lungs as his shoulders finally relax. The warmth of Qin Fen’s breath grazes lightly upon his, and he can’t help but feel as if the warm radiates within his chest as well.

 

“You and me.”

 

 

 

 

**_He loves me._ **


	4. Lines

It’s not as if he doesn’t think about it—he does. A lot, in fact. In the depths of the night as he wanders past the boundaries of dreams and reality. Where he closes his eyes and bypasses time itself. Sometimes he finds himself in the past, looking back at familiar faces and familiar situations. Other times he finds himself in the future, feeling an exhilarating thrill tingle under his skin as he observes what has yet to happen. He rehearses countless scenarios, counting down to the day he steps beneath the stage lights again. Would it be different this time around, he wonders. Or would he once again fade into the interwoven net of countless souls soaring for their dreams. The trepidation hides itself in the cracks and crevices of his heart, nestling itself snuggly until it melds with his flesh and blood. Anxiety. It becomes a part of him. 

 

Could he suffer another fall? Now that his bones are brittle and heart sore. Where he was no longer young and reckless—having too much he doesn’t want to lose. He thinks of the days long ago, the rise and falls on the course of life. He thinks of family, of old friends, of former teammates—he thinks of Mubo. 

 

In the end his mind always slips back to thoughts of Mubo. He’s unable to escape, as if the other’s existence was tattooed to his veins. And with every breath he takes, it only strengthen the incantations of the other’s name. He sighs softly, wondering if it was too late for regrets now. Maybe he  _ shouldn’t _ have been so easily swayed by a small smile and warm eyes. Maybe he should have looked away before his soul lost itself in the endless boundaries of Mubo’s gaze. They lulled him over, like sirens to odysseus. But Mubo—so warm, so caring—would never beckon him to his death, would never let him crash to the oceans below.

 

So is it that they would perish together?

 

Would the blood, sweat and tears of yet another youth be sacrificed in this time of change? And just how many lives and dreams would it take before they finally find the right time—the stars finally aligning—to create the world they were striving so badly for. Would they live to see it? Or would they lose themselves trying? And if it were so, he wishes they be the last batch of martyrs. Revolutionaries who would pave the way with their bones for the young ones. Young ones, like Zuo Ye, like Zimo, like Peiyao. Those who were fortunate enough to be born in better times. He wishes that they’d be spared from it all.

 

And maybe then, how many reincarnations after, he and Mubo would finally be born into the right times in the right places. And even then, they’d gravitate to one another like that of fated lovers. They’d meet under the limelight and this time around, they wouldn’t be moths dancing around candle flame. This time around, the fire within doesn’t disintegrate them to ashes. 

 

Maybe then, they would be free of half-healed wounds and bruises. 

Maybe then, neither of them would have to live with spiked fences around their hearts.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“It’s somewhat sad,” he voices over dinner one day.

 

“What is?” Mubo questions as the soft clinking of utensils against ceramic 

 

“How we live so cautiously now,” he gives a small frown, “Sometimes you miss the precariousness of being young and ignorant—the thrill of it all.”

 

“Comes with age,” the younger of the two comments, “like annual rings, each year the three only grows stronger so that storms and winds don’t tear it to its death.” He pauses, passing a piece of meat into Qin Fen’s bowl, “But the core is still the same, you know?”

 

He nods, chewing slowly, “I know.” 

 

“So?”

 

“Doesn’t make it less sad though.”

 

Mubo gives an exasperated sigh, “And this is how people become bitter and pruny at old age.”

 

“You’re pruny,” He chides with an exaggerated frown which does a flimsy job at concealing his smile.

 

“It’s nothing bad,” the younger reckons, “I can’t have you falling in the same ways for a second time, you know?”

 

And it’s true, Qin Fen agrees, they both can’t afford to dive head-first in the thorny thickets anymore. They’ve walked so many roads—a series of twists and turns—only to find themselves back at the very beginning. The swords upon their hands are rusted from time, from blood. Blood that was their’s, blood that wasn’t their’s. The thorns of the snaking vines leave tattered marks upon their flesh. The castle at the very end, still so far. 

 

He thinks of the way old men and women walk hand in hand, trembling as they make another step. They can’t afford to fall this time around—one wrong step and their bones turn to dust. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He doesn’t expect to see so many familiar faces. It’s funny how those who embarked on journeys before his find themselves on standstill, while those who came later than him have already made it near the endpoint. Fate works its ways like the endless lines upon his palm, running up and down, crossing here and there. Sometimes the lines run into one another—forming knots of obstacles. He figures he has a few of his own—one for the battle a year ago, another one for now. The rest he has yet to decipher. He runs his fingertips upon Mubo’s palm, tracing the etched lines of predestined fate.

 

“Everyone has their own fate,” Mubo always tells him.

 

“No one is aware of their own fate,” He says.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“And that’s why we try.”


	5. Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes fate works its way in circles

They rise and fall.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Like the ocean tides.

Like sinusoidal waves.

  
  
  
  
  
  


It’s more than once that Mubo has to remind himself how life works its ways like that of a pendulum. Everything’s always moving from one extremity to the other—nothing ever goes in one direction. It becomes their solace, that they will always see better days. It gnaws under their skin, that what was once complacent would be shaken into the unknown.

 

The first time Qin Fen falls, he clasps his hands in prayer.

 

He watches, from three platforms above as Qin Fen makes his way to the bottom tier of the triangle. He’s falling, Mubo thinks. It’s the way of the world, gravity accelerating all that is within the earth’s orbit to its centre. It keeps them grounded—it crashes them to the stoned roads.

 

Somewhere along the lines, the unsettledness in him morphs into one of dull anger. Where feelings of unjust fans itself until glowing embers turn into that of flames. For he knows, that  _ this _ isn’t where Qin Fen belongs, a star whose radiance has been buried by that of clouds. They’re dancing in the midst of hazy fog, hands clasped together and breaths lingering upon one another.And yet, no one is able to see the brightness of the other’s eyes but himself. 

 

He revels in it, wanting to keep something so perfect for himself. Yet, something in it breaks him, for this isn’t what Qin Fen deserves. Where all his wounds and scars are unseen by the world.

 

_ This _ isn’t where they are supposed to be—drifted apart from one another, separated even further than before. They could be better, he deems, they could be together.

  
  
  
  
  


And together they are, later in time where numbers replace the letters next to their names. Where the colours of their sweatshirts no longer place them within a hierarchy. It’s only this once that they are placed within the same group, before they part ways and settle themselves elsewhere. Where even if they come together whenever possible, he’s still let down by the thought that within these four months—this embarkment on a new journey—they would only have one stage to share.  

 

They cross paths like intersecting lines, running off in opposite directions. As if the heavens mark a cross upon their fates, unraveling the red strings between them two. And it’s only after it’s all done and over that he finds time to bemuse at it all. A cross like  _ ten _ in Chinese, an  _ X _ like  _ ten _ in Roman Numerals.  _ Ten _ for both times he’s met the dead end of a path, an  _ X _ for both times he’s told he’s  _ still _ not good enough. For a moment, he seems to transcend time, the wheel of life circling until it’s reached its starting point. The course of life is that of a pendulum, thwarting him two years back into the past.

 

“We all have our fates,” he whispers into the other’s ear the night after eliminations, “It seems that mine is cursed.”

 

“Ten,” Qin Fen mutters back, tracing the strokes of the character upon his skin, “For a Perfect Ten.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> emmm...i had this in my drafts for a long time but i forgot i never posted it and I got too preoccupied with oacasubs to check my writing stuff for a while OTL but aren't we glad that this fic is non-chronological and plotless lmao


	6. Distance

There’s always something ritual-esque between them, as if every moment needs to be properly welcomed and marked down before they can bid it farewell. Perhaps, it’s a sentiment that comes with aging—where one realizes that life is only so short and every moment is fleeting. 

 

It’s science, Mubo thinks back to black and white sentences in the daily news—memory consolidates better if a ritual is performed with it. Odd things, like tapping his wrist seven times to remember he’s locked his door. 

 

It’s superstition, Qin Fen muses, as he counts his steps on their strolls home from the dance studio. Even numbers make the day run smoother, he insists. Mubo only nods halfheartedly in return, eyes focused on the sky ahead. He tries to make out the stars hidden behind the smog of Beijing, gazing at the stars behind hazy curtains. Qin Fen follows slowly behind him, fixated on the ground instead. They’re two ends of a spectrum, melding in between. 

 

“520 _(I love you)_ ,” He whispers halfway, low enough that only he himself can hear—for soft mutters of love can only be heard by the heavens.

 

“1310, 1311, 1312…” he widens his steps, jumping the last few steps as they get closer to home. “1314 _(for a lifetime)_ , ” he finishes his promise just in time, smile growing on his face. He looks to the blackened skies above, wondering if Yue Lao has properly heard his wishes and tied the red string between the two of them. So that even on lost roads, they can find each other. 

 

So that even on nights spent apart, he feels that the two of them are still together.

 

 

 

 

 

Mubo leaves on a bright and warm day, the roads emptied of the snow from the previous week. He thinks back to their first farewells, walking down nearly empty roads on a cold winter morning. It’s nothing compared to now, bustling with noise and people, as if echoing the revival of spring after the long winter. Qin Fen smiles emptily, as the sunlight drenches upon their shoulders—akin to halos.  _ This _ , he reasons, is what Han Mubo deserves—being showered in affection from all who love him. But  _ this _ , he knows, isn’t what  _ he _ wants—wanting to keep the other to himself.

 

It’s a selfish thought, he knows, wanting to send the other off by himself—reverting to days of the past where they were able to walk hand in hand underneath moonlit roads. Waltzing down the lane of memories to the static noise of the night. Where they could still afford to proclaim silently to the world:  _ We are in love _ .

 

Except now these words don’t escape his lips—the characters are engraved under his skin, hidden in his gaze. They become a morphless thought, something that lies in the air like water molecules on a humid day. It settles upon their skin, weaves in between their hair, clings onto their thoughts—but is all in all, intangible. 

 

The sound of camera shutter encircle his thoughts, jolting him back to reality. It reminds him too much of gunshots, an unsettling  _ bang _ that goes straight for the monster gnawing at his heart. His chest feels heavy and empty at the same time, muddled voices whispering over one another. He tightens his breath, as if the simple click of a button was enough to pierce through his chest. But maybe then, the monster of green would be slayed—left to rot and decompose at the very bottom of his heart.

 

“What’s wrong?” Mubo pries nonchalantly, eye glancing over the younger ones fooling around. “We’ll be back soon, you know?”

 

He nods in agreement, pacing himself so that they walk in sync, “I know.” 

 

“It’s already spring,” the younger male comments. Qin Fen gives a small sigh, carbon dioxide expelling his lungs and swarming into the crisp air. “It’s almost a full year already.”

 

“Almost a year,” Mubo repeats, contemplating upon the syllables of the sentence. He gives a soft smile, eyes forming crescents— _ containing the galaxies, Qin Fen thinks _ —as his lips upturn. “Do you remember now? What season it was when we met?” There’s a tone of bemusement underlying his question, a hint of childishness that he veils behind layers and layers of facades. 

 

“Summer,” Qin Fen resigns, holding his hands up in gesture.

 

“That sounds about right.”

 

“What do you think we’d be doing this summer?” He wonders.

 

“Whatever we were doing last summer.” 

 

He smiles in return, an exasperated one but finally one of relief and not anxiety. “Han Mubo,” he calls, “Let’s walk home after the last stage—just the two of us.” 

 

“You talk like you’re already sure you won’t make it,” Mubo says with a laugh. He returns the laugh, running a hand through his hair, “You know I won’t make it. The end of this game of chess has already been clear by this point.”

 

“You have us,” Mubo tilts his head towards the younger ones frolicking ahead, “You have me,” he reaffirms.

 

 

 

 

 

_ “You have me,” _ the younger’s voice repeats in his head as he watches the car settle off the road. 

 

_ They’re apart _ .

 

The invisible string between them lengthens, tugging softly at his ring finger.

 

_ They’re together. _

**Author's Note:**

> hmu if you wanna talk about oaca at my sideblog (qinfen-qingshen.tumblr.com) <3


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